Bombdigggity Brunets
by WordsAblaze
Summary: Steve's caring nature gets him ambushed and of course Jonathan is the one to find and try to help the poor boy... Lowkey Stonathan. Enjoy!
1. chapter 1

_I don't even know dudes, this just kinda happened and I thought I'd share rather than let it gather virtual dust._

* _Warning for implied attempted rape, non con kissing, and violence_ *

~ **Bombdiggity Brunets** ~

Steve pauses as he hears someone cry out in pain and glances into the alley he knows he should probably avoid because it looks so alike to the tunnels with the demodogs and he hasn't fully recovered from that yet, but he can't rid himself of the urge to help whoever is hurt.

"Is anyone there?" he asks, not even caring what a cliché move that is.

"Help… me…" someone croaks and Steve is moving forward in an instant, already thinking of how he can help them and who to call if they need to go to a hospital or something.

What he doesn't expect is for someone to jump out of the shadows and tackle him to the floor. He's in pain before he can cry out, his back slamming into the hard, unforgiving floor with a dull thud and his head throbbing as he fails to protect it from hitting the ground, a heavy ache thundering in his brain immediately.

"Who-?" Steve manages before there's a hand over his mouth and a fist on his chest.

He coughs, gasping, struggling, trying to get back on his feet, as more blows rain down on him like a plethora of unwanted gifts. It's not like he's never been in a fight before but he prefers using charm over actual physical violence, despite what most may believe. Even Billy's incessant taunts and interactions couldn't compare to the pain he was feeling now, worse than the injuries from fighting demodogs and the scars from fights with classmates, worse than heartbreak and hangovers, worse than anything he's ever felt before.

"Listen, I have money-"

"Shut it, brat. We don't need no money," someone barks, wrapping their hands around his neck with a force almost too strong to let him breathe, and, with a chilled sense of horror, Steve realises there's more than one person against him here. He'd thought there were too many punches and kicks for four limbs but it hadn't occurred to him that this was a set-up of some sort.

He whimpers as one of them knees his lower abdomen, making him curl into himself by instinct, while another holds his arms above his head, stroking his hair in a horribly affectionate manner. It only gets worse when one of them strokes his lower lip, pulling his mouth open with a cruel laugh.

There are hands where nobody else's hands should go but he can't stop them because they're inspecting his features as if he's a doll and he couldn't move even if he wanted to and anyway he can't bring himself to anger the people who'd just gleefully delivered to him a definite set of bruises.

He struggles as one of their faces ends up close enough for him to smell the alcohol, trying to wriggle his way out of their gang like a child trying to escape a nightmare. He's eighteen, he's an adult, he knows what they're probably trying to do but he's not ready, no-one's ever ready, he doesn't want to give in.

He's still struggling when someone's lips are on his and they're chuckling and there's an unwanted tongue in his mouth and they're biting down on his lip and ignoring his whines, and then there's someone else kissing him but it's more like an act of vengeance than one of love because they're invading instead of exploring and there are hands on his jaw, keeping him still in a hold that's sure to bruise, and he can't stay still, his eyes watering with hopelessness.

He has no choice but to go still when the end of a cigarette is pressed to his lip, the pain burning far worse than his panic. The others laugh and follow suit and soon enough, there's a burning on his stomach, two on the bottom of his feet, another on his wrist, and he's never ever hated the blasted cigarettes so much in his life. He slams his eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to block them out, trying to block everything out.

There's something – a damp piece of fabric that smells so bad it can't be good – in his mouth before he can think and he's choking, gagging, crying, coughing, struggling as laughter echoes in the alley and his hair is being pulled on and his arm is twisted behind him and his knees start to ache from being pushed into the stones on the ground as the cloth is taken away when someone changes their mind and he can't breathe and the world starts to blur and there's something that smells like alcohol but stronger, stranger, being shoved into his mouth and he's spitting, wretching, shuddering, sobbing as he tries to pretend he's alright.

There's someone else invading his mouth before he can breathe properly so he only inhales the scent of alcohol and the stench of cigarettes before he's coughing again, his eyes watering and his jaw aching, tears rolling down his cheeks as he shuts his eyes, gagging, struggling, scrambling for purchase on something, anything that can help him leave this situation, helpless.

"First time for everything, right, pretty boy?"

The men around him laugh, then he's being grabbed, pushed, and pulled this way and that, and he can't even move because he's so tired, so exhausted, and he wants this to stop, and someone's pulling on his shirt, ripping the delicate fabric and exposing his skin to the harsh ground before someone else is trying to figure out his belt and he's panicked again but there's no way to stop them because his vision is blurry and he can't figure out where he is and there are hands crawling all over his skin, another burn arising on his shoulder and another on his feet, one more in the fold of his elbow and a matching one on his other wrist, and they won't let him go and someone pulls on his jeans despite his meek kicking and muffled protests and there's a ringing in his ears that won't go away-

And everything goes silent.

There's a moment of calm where he hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing, and then he's being pulled again, shoved backwards, and his back hits the bricked wall with an alarming noise but he's folding into himself before he can register it, shaking and biting back sobs as he tries to wrap himself up in his shock and disbelief and hope.

He can hear people shouting and the sound of punches but that only makes him flinch and he only realises his shoes have gone when he flinches hard enough to scare himself further. He swallows his fear for a moment but the taste of a bitter drug in his mouth is suddenly too strong and he's heaving again, trying to rid himself of it and find his strength but he can't move because his limbs are frozen and he can see his belt lying discarded on the floor and suddenly it morphs into a demodog tail coming for him so he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore everything.

It works.

For a while.

After what seems like an eternity and a half, there's a soft hand on his shoulder that still makes him jump but it's accompanied by soothing whispers and a caring hand pushing his sweat-soaked hair back with a kinder touch, one that wants to help and not hurt him.

"Hey, Steve, come on, can you stand?" someone is asking and he nods his head because he's king steve, babysitter extraordinaire, and he has to be okay but when he tries to stand, the burns on his feet scream in pain and his knees buckle and he can't help the sob that escapes him.

He's just so tired of being strong and looking out for others and never being able to complain because obviously rich boys can't have problems and he wants it all to stop but the world won't leave him alone and he always has to look after the kids because they're sure to get in trouble but he's trapped and-

The voice swears and Steve's abruptly pulled back into the showers after basketball and the rough smirk shoving him into lockers and angry parents shouting at him to clean the house and stop drinking so, before he can think, he's shaking and mumbling apologies, backing away and stumbling over himself until he's on the floor again, curled around himself and violently shaking his head as he tries to block out everyone, especially whoever's swearing at him.

"No, Steve, hey, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you, come on man, trust me."

As much as he doesn't want to, there's a sincerity to the voice and the pounding in his head makes it hard to refuse and he finds himself leaning on the other boy, limping to avoid stepping on the burns on the soles of his feet.

It takes him a few blurry minutes but he recognises the uniform brown bangs and the hunched shoulders and the hidden anger in the boy's touch and he can tell who it is - one thing he can grab on to when sanity threatens to slip away.

"What's wrong with your feet?" Jonathan asks but he seems to see the answer before anyone can say it and he's swearing but, even in a pained haze, Steve knows the ire isn't for him.

The two of them are stumbling along the road when Steve's stomach suddenly heaves and he's retching, gagging, dropping to the floor and spitting out whatever he can, trying not to hyperventilate.

Jonathan is swearing again but he's lifting Steve up bridal style before he can complain and there's someone comforting about his overly strong cologne so Steve stops struggling and tries to breathe normally, unknowingly burying his head in Jonathan's neck and causing the other boy to smile for a millisecond but then frown at the men who'd dared to cross the line.

"Which way to your house?" He asks gently, setting Steve in the passenger seat of his car, breathing heavily from the effort of carrying him.

Steve frowns but shakes his head. "No."

"No? Come on man, work with me here, which way to your house?"

"Can't go…" Steve mumbles groggily.

"Can't go... Can't go there? Why not? You don't want your parents to know?" Jonathan asks despite the internal wince it causes at the thought of his Joyce finding out where he is.

Steve shakes his head, wanting to laugh and cry and explain everything but finding it harder and harder to form thoughts, never mind sentences, yet he still manages to slur: "Away… locked out."

Jonathan whistles, somehow understanding what he means. "They locked you out?"

Steve groans as another wave of nausea hits him and the dull throb in his head intensifies but he still shakes his head again. "Gone... My fault- Was bad-"

That's all he needs to say before Jonathan is sighing and raking fingers through his limp locks, his expression the kindest it's ever been as he looks over Steve's trembling form.

He'd taken out the anger of his own situation on the boy without thinking that he may not be the only one with family problems. Not that Steve had ever talked about his family... But, then again, the party hadn't exactly given him a chance to talk, seeing him as a brother and a babysitter that never needs a break.

"Please-" Steve whimpers suddenly and Jonathan jumps as he carries on, his words slurring: "Don't- don't lock me up again, please, my parents will kill me- don't-"

"Steve!" Jonathan interrupts, "Stop. I'm not going to put you in jail."

Steve shakes his head and slides into the small section under the dashboard in front of the car seat. Jonathan stares at him in shock, wondering how someone his age can fit in such a tight place, and starts to drive, pretending not to hear the small muffled sobs Steve emits each time they run over a pothole or something.

Jonathan's experienced his fair share of violence but he can't imagine how battered Steve must be feeling - especially because of how battered he physically looks - and, even though the other boy isn't his favourite person, he wouldn't wish such a thing upon anyone.

He ends up parked outside his own house and, before he can drive away again, Will is opening the car door with a smile that quickly becomes a gasp, "Steve?"

The brunet looks up, smiling broadly, all signs of tears gone. "Hey, kiddo, how's it going?"

Jonathan tries to keep a neutral expression but the kindness in Steve's voice sets his blood boiling, only because he knows someone like Steve, who constantly looks after his brother and the weird party, doesn't deserve to be in so much pain, doesn't deserve to feel obligated to pretend he's alright when he's really not.

"What are you doing down there? And what happened to your clothes?" His nose wrinkles. "Are you drunk?"

"No but the guy who beat my ass again kind of was..." Steve laughs, and Jonathan gapes at him, wondering how he can put on such a show despite everything.

"Jonathan, are you hurt too?" Will asks.

"Surprisingly, he stopped them killing me. Guess he doesn't want to adopt the nail bat again, huh?" Steve grins, and only Jonathan sees his nails digging into his palm as an outlet for his pain.

Will shakes his head, running off - probably to find Joyce - and once again Jonathan wants to thank him for being so impulsive and smart.

Steve, of course, lets his facade crumble for a second before climbing out of the car in a way that can't be anything but painful, trying to crawl away, anywhere, nowhere, somewhere he can't feel the hands on his skin and the tongues in his mouth.

Jonathan shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to ignore the guilt inside of him but then he sees the blood on his seat and can't think beyond the hurt in his heart and how Joyce will scold him for letting the boy run when he's so vulnerable.

There's a deathly calm in Steve's eyes by the time Jonathan catches up to him and he's gone quiet, too quiet, when Jonathan stands him up but he's like a statue, chipped and still, unmoving, even when Will comes back, as if he's shut down.

The longest seconds of their life pass as the two Byers siblings share concerned looks - there's something about a person like Steve, not that there are many like him, being hurt that can anger even the quietest of people - but then Joyce is there, gasping and clapping a hand over her mouth at the sight of the boy's condition.

Jonathan agrees; Steve looks gnarly.

"What happened?" She asks immediately, taking the boy from the siblings and wrapping one of Steve's arms around her shoulders to help him walk to their front door.

"He was ambushed," Jonathan tells her, supporting Steve's other side so he doesn't have to irritate his burns any further.

Will's already on the radio to the rest of the party before Jonathan can stop him, before Jonathan can even notice him, the older brother being far too preoccupied in trying to steady the drugged brunette.

Steve goes still, shocking all three Byers, and groans as the world spins and the blurriness intensifies so he can't see, can't hear, can't tell where he is, and he's in the dark again but he can't find a light and there's nothing to guide him back to consciousness and it feels like the world is ending again.

He blinks rapidly for a second before his eyes roll back and he slumps to the floor like a puppet who's had their strings cut away in an act of unprovoked, unreasonably spiteful hatred.

Jonathan sighs as he looks over the unconscious teenager and his family's started looks of concern but, if he's honest, he can't be mad at Steve in the slightest. That doesn't mean he isn't mad though, he's positively raging at the men who'd attacked Steve, even if he can't figure out exactly why he cares so much or if this is really happening.

"Are we dreaming?" Will asks plainly.

- **END** -

 _Et voila. Maybe leave a review? Let me know of any mistakes! Have_ _a tubular time_...


	2. chapter 2

_I didn't expect it but this got quite the response (mostly on ao3) so here's another chapter..._

*Warning for nightmares and implied past attempted non con activities*

 **~Bombdiggity Brunets 2~**

"I wish we were dreaming," Jonathan replies five minutes later, but it doesn't matter that his reply wasn't immediate because none of them are going to think about anything else anytime soon.

They'd lifted the limp Steve onto the couch and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, Joyce biting her nails and Will humming 'Should I Stay Or Should I Go?' under his breath like a looped cassette.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Dustin repeats over and over as he walks in.

Jonathan watches as Steve stirs even in his drugged sleep - the teenager and Dustin had built up a bond closer than brothers - but whatever they'd given him had obviously been way too strong to be legal.

"What happened to our Steve?" Dustin asks and not even Joyce makes a surprised sound at the possessive pronoun because he is attached to all of them and they were all fond of him.

"Some idiots attacked him," Jonathan replies, not wanting to go into details and scare the kid.

"Then why aren't we out going after them, kicking their as-"

"Language..." Joyce mutters weakly, biting her lip as soon as she's said it.

Dustin has the decency to look slightly sheepish. "Sorry, Mrs Byers."

Jonathan stifles a laugh, taking a moment to wonder how on earth the curly-haired kid had gotten here so quickly, only to give up on the thought as the rest of the party walks in.

Joyce makes a small noise that seems to say 'why are there suddenly so many children who should be asleep in their own houses suddenly wide awake in my house instead?' but she quickly recovers, ushering them all inside and shutting the door; there's not much that can surprise her anymore.

"Hurt?" Eleven questions as she kneels in front of Steve then reels back. "Drug."

Mike steadies her before frowning at the unconscious teenager. "What happened?"

"Hurt..." Eleven repeats, reaching a hand out to touch Steve's bruised face.

A small part of Jonathan knows he should be explaining, should be saying something, should be doing anything but standing still, but he can't bring himself to interrupt the kids' theorising.

"It wasn't Billy, was it?" Max asks quietly, but it sounds more like a statement than an inquiry.

Jonathan shakes his head, finally feeling like he can contribute once again. "I don't know- we don't know who the men were."

Lucas squeezes Max's hand in what's probably supposed to be a subtle way but honestly couldn't be any more obvious.

Joyce walks back into the room, at which point the seven of them realise she'd walked out in the first place. She looks at them with an endearingly sad expression and chews on her lip for a minute before saying, "We need to wake him up."

"Wait, El, didn't Hopper come with you?" Dustin asks, speaking up for the first time since his apology for the angry explosion.

Eleven nods. "Outside."

Dustin looks torn between going to find the Chief and staying where he is knelt beside Steve so Jonathan coughs. "I'll go get him, yeah?"

He's exhaling shakily before anyone can thank him, breathing in the cold air as if it's gaseous courage. The sharp late evening breeze pricks his skin but he's hardly concerned, Steve's oddly terrified expression haunting his vision continuously.

"You okay, kid?" Hopper asks as if he was the one searching for Jonathan and not the other way around.

"I- um, yeah... Dustin wants you." Jonathan doesn't even look at the Chief, knowing his face will show a pity he doesn't want.

He follows Hopper inside and ruffles Will's hair when the younger Byers brother hugs him tightly. The two of them have seen a lot of disturbing things in their life but Steve being injured so badly is way too strange, way too unexpected, way too surreal.

Hopper seems to be having a rapid conversation with Dustin and Eleven by the time Jonathan can focus again, the three of them repeatedly glancing at Steve and occasionally looking to Jonathan for some reason.

Dustin throws his hands up after a while, retreating to Steve's side for a few minutes of awkward hushed conversations before apparently giving up and clambering onto the couch, practically draping himself over his self-proclaimed brother. Nobody laughs or protests, knowing that Dustin is strangely over-protective of Steve in particular and he's not fooling anyone by claiming it's only for the hairstyling tips.

"Move." Eleven's voice is hard and strong as she walks towards the group, her decision clearly made.

Everyone but Dustin and Jonathan does exactly that, grabbing someone's hand and standing against one of the walls. Dustin refuses to move, latching onto Steve, and Jonathan figures that, if something goes wrong, a middle schooler probably doesn't know as much about helping the injured as he does. Eleven nods at them as if praising something their choice and raises her hands, shutting her eyes and breathing so slowly it looks like she's stopped needing oxygen.

There's an alarmingly still silence in the room until Eleven's eyes fly open and she slowly clenches her fist.

Steve shudders before starting to tremble, more and more violent until his eyes fly open and he falls off the couch, retching. Dustin shrieks as he also overbalances so Jonathan darts forwards and rolls Steve out of Dustin's way to prevent further injuries to his already battered body.

Then Steve is gagging, spitting out something that looks like it has a mind of his own and gasping for breath between his heaving. Eleven winces but curls her other fist, the rest of the group watching as Steve's body rids itself of whatever he'd been given to subdue him. Nobody relaxes until Steve groans, his body going limp as he slumps against Jonathan, Eleven nodding in satisfaction.

"Hey, Steve, you look like sh-"

"Shut it, Dusty," Steve interrupts, his voice barely a whisper, quiet and jagged.

Dustin just beams, holding his nose and wrapping his arms around Steve, almost elbowing Jonathan in the process.

Steve tenses and, even though he weakly wraps his arms around Dustin in return, everyone teen and above in the room can tell his mind is elsewhere. Not that that stops him, he's Steve Harrington, initially mother of four but now definitely more, and he won't ever put himself above anyone else, especially the kids.

Dustin only clambers off Steve when Joyce demands they all gather in Will's room for a sleepover-esque meeting, at which point he gently pats Steve's head in an almost comical way and waves as he's pulled out of the room, allowing Steve to finally wince and shut his eyes, his face paler than should be possible for anyone who spends so much time in the sun as he watches over his kids.

And finally, Steve can think again, his mind racing back to the darkness of the alley and the slobbery gestures of unwanted affection that had been inescapable and much worse than the demogorgons because he can understand monsters that come from a parallel dimension and are born of what looks like possessive slime but he can't understand monsters that look human, talk human, smell human, but act so inhuman that his mind is sent into a frenzy of disbelief, horror, and confusion.

"Steve?" Jonathan asks and Steve jumps, realising that he's leaning against the other brunette and also that he doesn't really mind it.

"I need to... I need- go back." Steve shakes his head. "Parents- looking... will be looking? For me..."

Hopper and Joyce frown, their expressions clearly skeptical and unwilling to let Steve go anywhere out of their sight.

"I can drive him back?" Jonathan offers, wanting to cry at Steve's lack of spirit.

Hopper and Joyce once again frown but this time, it's kinder, more knowing, with a hint of amusement. Eventually, Joyce nods. "But if anything happens, you come right back, yeah?"

Jonathan nods and notices that Steve seems to have taken on a green hue. "Actually, I think he's going to throw up."

Sure enough, Steve's stomach tries to empty itself out despite having nothing inside and he coughs, groaning, his head pounding like it's being slammed onto the floor once again.

Joyce makes a sound that only a mother can manage, sounding both terrified, pitying, and protective.

"Sorry," Steve mumbles, his eyes dropping as he tries to fight his urge to sleep the world away.

"No, hey, don't say that... it isn't your fault," Jonathan says before either of the parents can, leaning forwards and practically wrapping himself around Steve.

"He's not going anywhere," Hopper declares as he assesses the barely-awake and shivering Steve; Steve probably would have protested but he's far too busy falling asleep on Jonathan, who's a mixture of elated, angry, disbelieving, and concerned.

"Well, he's not sleeping on the couch," Jonathan declares firmly, his voice the firmest it's ever been. "He can have my bed for tonight."

"Jonathan..." Joyce starts but sees the look on his face and sighs, her hands on her hips. "Alright."

Hopper grins. "I guess I get to upgrade to the couch then, huh?"

The three of them share a look that renders their previous decision absolutely rejected but before any of them can confirm it aloud, Eleven walks in with a blanket and a waffle. "For Steve," she says, a rough smile on her face.

Hopper's face softens as he takes the two things from her and passes them to Joyce, then following Eleven back to the other room so he can make sure the kids are all okay and on their way to sleep. Joyce places the waffle on the table but wraps the blanket around the two boys, kissing the top of Jonathan's head.

"Mom-"

"I already know and your sleeping bag is in the cupboard as usual in case you were wondering."

Jonathan grins for a second before awkwardly pushing Steve's weight onto Joyce and standing up, shaking his numb legs a little. Once he can feel his feet again, he wraps one of Steve's arms around his shoulders and all but drags Steve to his room, stumbling no less than eight times on the way.

Steve half wakes up long enough to frown in confusion, mutter an apology, poke Jonathan's nose by accident, and trip over his own feet, landing on the bed.

Jonathan throws his hands up in frustration just as Joyce laughs from the doorway. "Did he just poke you?"

"I don't know?"

Joyce shakes her head and throws a blanket over Steve, kissing the top of Jonathan's head once again. "Night."

"Night, mom."

Jonathan lets his eyes shut but he can't bring himself to sleep, restlessly changing position or sitting up and glancing over at Steve every few minutes.

It's a good thing too, because it means he's wide awake and ready to jump up when he hears someone softly whimper.

At first, he thinks it's Will back with another of his Upside Down nightmares, but the door is still firmly closed. His heart hammering in his chest from being awoken so abruptly, he sits up and looks around, gasping when he catches sight of Steve twisting and trembling in his clearly disturbing sleep.

He's up in an instant, his previous nightmares about the demogorgon seeming to be nothing in comparison to Steve's pale and scrunched up face. Despite his eyes being squeezed shut, they're clearly moving, his dream obviously a flashback of some kind. Steve's hands are uselessly clenching into fists but it's only when his breathing quickens alarmingly that Jonathan reaches out to steady the boy.

Steve stills at the touch and Jonathan sighs in relief but it turns out Steve isn't calming down, he's freezing in fear, and he's thrashing on the bed within seconds, sobbing, mostly asleep but awake enough to accidentally punch Jonathan's shoulder.

Jonathan stumbles back as the other boy cries out, Steve's watery eyes flying open and his breathing at a rate faster than should be biologically safe.

And Steve can sort of see past the men again, he can feel the blanket his hands are clenched around, but he can't get the taste of their poisonous affection out of his mind and he's spitting, gagging, trying to cry them away form him, clawing at his skin to rip their presence far from here, where they can never touch him again.

"Steve, Steve, hey, Steve, it's Jonathan, come on, it's only me, Steve, hey, can you hear me?"

Steve slams his eyes shut and weakly nods, flinching when someone settles on the bed beside him but trying to relax a little when he smells the familiar Byers' cologne.

It's strange, he manages to think even amongst so much panic, how a usually irrelevant scent can be so grounding, so reassuring, so safe.

He doesn't realise he'd been crying until he feels the gentle presence of tears on his face, tears that have been sliding down his bruised skin and rolling under his wobbling chin. He lifts a shaking hand to wipe the salty water away and discovers that he's still releasing tears, still unable to forget the stench of alcohol above him.

"Steve?"

He can't move, can't acknowledge Jonathan, can't open his eyes because he's scared- no, he's downright terrified of the men being millimeters away again, the one with a golden tooth and the one with a crooked smile that promises nothing but trouble, and so he can't bring himself to breathe until his lungs scream in stress and he has to cough, cursing himself and desperately drawing in breath.

"No-" he croaks.

"Hey, hey, can you hear me?" Jonathan asks, and then the weight next to him disappears and there's someone kneeling beside the bed and he can't tell who they are until he breathes in deeply and catches the scent of whatever that liquid is you need to develop photos.

But then he's worried, scared, terrified he's still in the alley and someone is taking a photo of him so they can show his parents and make them so mad because he's meant to be strong and he's supposed to be able to handle himself and he's going to be in so much trouble when they find out and they might send him away, far away from the party, who he's grown so fond of and he'll have to invent a long-distance walkie talkie because there's no way he can find another gang of middle schoolers but he isn't nearly smart enough for that and so he'll be alone again which means he'll have no purpose in the world and it'll be because of how weak he is, how stupid, how utterly useless and-

"Steve!"

He jumps.

"Steve! Come on, come back to me, you're gonna be fine, hey, you're okay, I'm still here, only me, you're okay..."

"Th- They- They wanted..." he trails off, shutting his eyes and groaning, doubling over so his head rests on top of the blanket.

"I'm sorry, man, you didn't deserve that," Jonathan says sincerely, definitely not expecting the tiny bark of laughter that escapes Steve.

"But- but I did... I did, didn't I? I'm ju- jus- just so... so-"

"Whatever you're thinking, it's not true," Jonathan says softly, wanting to cry but also wanting Steve to stop crying. It doesn't seem like Steve even knows he's still crying, and he probably doesn't care.

Steve finally lifts his head up and looks, really looks at Jonathan, his intense gaze both intimidating and pitiful.

"Are- are you, um, are you sure?" Steve asks, and Jonathan gets the feeling that nobody's really told him just how important, how appreciated, how incredible he really is - something that makes his heart clench in regret.

"I'm so sure," Jonathan replies, "that I could defeat one of those stupid demogorgons with my sure-ness."

Despite the tragically beautiful tears glistening on his face, Steve's lips curve themselves into a smile and he releases a small chuckle, some of the remaining panic visibly draining from his expression.

"Sorry."

"Why?" Jonathan asks in confusion, his heart a little lighter at the thought of Steve being a little more relaxed.

"I, uh, I woke you..."

Jonathan shakes his head and sends Steve the warmest smile he can muster. "I'm glad you did."

The shock on Steve's face would be conical were it not so heartbreaking; nobody deserves to live life thinking that waking someone who cares about you up in the middle of the night because of a nightmare caused by something absolutely horrifying and beyond anyone's control makes you a burden, nobody deserves that.

Not knowing what to do when Steve starts blinking so furiously he has to be trying to hold back tears, Jonathan swallows and stands himself up, waiting a few seconds before perching on the bed and wrapping an arm around Steve. He couldn't be more relieved when a head softly rests on his shoulder and he feels the other boy shaking, not because he wants Steve to he upset but because he's glad he can act as safety, a trustworthy ballast, a potential source of comfort.

After a minute or so of quiet sobbing and gentle humming, Jonathan shifts so he's also sitting against the headboard, Steve then diagonally leaning on his chest with his head on Jonathan's shoulder. Shooting down any attempts at apologies, Jonathan wraps himself around the other teenager, letting his head rest on the perfect fluffy waves that are someone better than his own hair despite everything.

"You're going to get better," Jonathan soothes, knowing that Steve probably won't be perfectly alright for a while but also knowing there's a never a point in your life where you can't heal, even if it is a painfully slow journey.

In that moment, there could be nothing as soothing as hearing Steve's small hum of disbelieving yet trusting agreement.

Steve's breathing finally, finally slows down to a rate that can be considered normal and the two of them curl around each other in a way that's sure to bring in stiff limbs in the morning but they don't think that far ahead, not caring about the rest of the world and only dimly realising that their hands had somehow folded over one another and their fingers had intertwined somewhere along the way before accompanying each other in the most peaceful sleep possible for them.

Jonathan does, however, have just enough time to wonder if this is indeed a figment of his imagination after all.

- **END** -

 _Et voila. Maybe leave a review? Let me know of any mistakes! Have a tubular time..._


	3. Chapter 3

_It's been a while but I had exams and I didn't want to post a small chapter so... Thank you to the guest who reviewed, it made my day!_

*warnings for subtle panic attacks and overall tension as before*

 **~Bombdiggity Brunets 3~**

Steve wakes with a scream.

It's not a vocal scream that alerts anyone else he's currently terrified out of his mind, no, because that would disturb them and he doesn't want to be a bother, but it's a silent, internal scream that causes his thoughts to spiral into pessimism, and he's rolling out of bed before he can really think about what's happening, quietly landing on his hands and ankles to avoid making a sound.

And he's out of the room within a few seconds, downstairs within one minute, and leaving the house in another.

With no time in his plan for shoes or a jacket, he simply takes as deep a breath as he can and places one foot on the road, wincing as the cigarette burn flares up again, and starts to run.

He keeps slamming his eyes shut intermittently, wanting to rid himself of any pain or weakness by the time he gets back to his house. He tries to pretend that everything is fine and this is just another basketball escapade and he isn't now scared out of his mind most of the time. He doesn't entirely convince himself to be free of panic but he forces himself to pretend, knowing his parents won't allow for a ruined reputation.

Strangely, the front door is open.

"Father?" Steve calls as he walks in, draping he coat he'd hung up at some point around his shoulders to make himself look presentable.

"Kitchen!" his mother calls, so he wipes his feet out of habit and walks to their kitchen.

"You look terrible, where have you been?" his mother asks, her eyes wide.

"Probably playing basketball again," his father scoffs.

Steve nods, attempting to suppress the flashes of those men. His mother smiles and shakes her head at him, obviously assuming it was just another rough practice after which he'd gone to a mate's house and lost track of the time; it's not like they could know the only real friends he has wouldn't touch a basketball to save their life.

"Go get cleaned up, I have a meeting we need to attend."

Steve stops for a second. "You want me to come?"

His father sends him a strained smile. "As my only son, you are likely to inherit my role in the company as long as the board deems you fit to do so."

His mother beams. "So go freshen up and then you boys can have some pie before leaving!"

Steve barely even comprehends that he's been promised pie because he's too busy wondering how he's supposed to pretend he's not constantly losing his mind in front of so many people - people that have the power to shape his future in any way they please.

Nevertheless, he takes a painful shower, washing the dried blood off his skin, regretting trying to claw his skin off when he sees the faint scratches, and trying his best not to agitate the bruises or burns. Sighing, he realised he'll have to keep a jacket on at all times until the marks of his nails fade.

As for his face... Well, people are quick to assume he's gotten into a fight anyway; that shouldn't be a problem.

It's a challenge and a half to make himself look as cocky as the world expects himself to be but he does it, his jeans, shirt, and jacket complementing one another and his hair styled into magazine-worthy perfection.

His fingers itch to grab the nail bat hidden under his bed but he resists the temptation and, instead, slips on the small necklace Dustin had given him - one half of the silhouette of a man with a quiff. It's hidden under his shirt so nobody can see the chain but it comforts him to know it's there, a comfort he greatly needs if he's to play the part of the Steve Harrington that died as soon as he walked into that alley.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbles when his mother offers him the pie. To avoid making her suspicious, he adds, "we had heaps to eat after the practice, I'm still full."

He's lying, of course he is. He just can't bear the idea of eating after the taste of intoxicants and arrogance in his mouth because there's no way he'd stomach it and there's no way he's risking throwing up in front of his parents.

Luckily, his father is too busy eating and his mother doesn't question him, only smiles and says, "Oh, okay. I'll leave it in the fridge then."

There's no more to be said by anyone - and he almost misses the constant buzz of life at the Byers' house - until they get in the car and his father suddenly announces he doesn't feel so good.

Naturally, Steve and his mother both panic.

His mother panics because she loves his father and she's worried for his health, probably also wondering if it was her pie that caused it, but Steve panics because he doesn't want to face his father's colleagues alone and he wishes he'd eaten that pie now.

As soon as his mother shepherds his father back inside, he feels the guilt creeping at his heart. He's so stupid, he tells himself, not thinking of his father's health first, and follows his parents inside, hoping neither of them picks up on his internal struggle to stay calm.

His father sits on the couch, looking greener than their dying bamboo plant, and shakes his head. "Son, you're going to have to go for me."

"What?"

His father nods seriously. "It doesn't look good if neither of us goes."

His mother sighs. "Be careful driving."

And that's that. Because apparently, neither of them can sense the utter terror running in his blood as he swallows and nods before taking the car keys and trying not to grimace. So he swallows his anxiety and shakes his head, climbing into the car as if it's an active volcano and starting the engine as if he's waking up a Demogorgon. His hands are clammy as he grips the wheel but he has no choice, knowing his parents will be watching from the window in case he backs down.

And so he breathes.

And breathes.

And breathes.

He just breathes because there's nothing else to do when he's trying so hard not to simply jump out of the car and run as far as his legs will go before collapsing.

After a small eternity of breathing, he twists the key and puts his foot down, starting to drive. It takes him double the usual time to successfully pull out and join the traffic and he can feel the tension rushing through his blood as fluidly as the car tyres on the road.

Somehow, nothing goes wrong until he gets to the office where his father usually holds his meetings, but then everything goes wrong.

He sees the stiff men in business suits that are probably more expensive than anything he owns - at least, in terms of money - and he sees the way they're carrying themselves like predators. That's not, however, what throws him off. The only that manages to hinder his confidence is one small detail he notices about one of the men: there's an awfully familiar ring on his finger.

And Steve abruptly feels his stomach twist and his heart skip a beat because he cannot accept the possibility of having to spend hours with a man whose ring had pierced his skin in an attempt to subdue him, he just cannot. Even breathing is a chore as his hands grip the steering wheel with all their strength and he attempts to calm his panic down but it doesn't work and suddenly his mind is whirling and his brain is spinning and the world outside seems to be blurring and there's nowhere for him to go inside the metal of the car so he needs to get out but he can't find the door handle and his fingers are uselessly fumbling around so he's stuck and vulnerable and they're going to get him again, they're going to get him again, they're going to get him again, they're going to g-

"-eve, kid, come on, please!"

He groans, blinking his eyes open and realising he'd passed out some point.

"Oh, thank- Steve, can you hear me?"

"Why does everyone assume I'm going deaf just because I keep blacking out?" He wonders out loud, his contemplation doubling as an affirmation.

He hears a strained laugh, then blinks again, surprised to see Chief Hopper standing above him. Well, kneeling above him... Kneeling beside him, technically, since he's lying on the grass.

"The meeting-"

"Isn't as important as you," Hopper interrupts, and Steve is once again filled with confusion.

"I'm s-"

"Don't even think about apologising to me, kid."

"Yes, sir," Steve mumbles on autopilot.

Hopper's eyes widen and he opens his mouth only to change his mind and change his head, then change his mind again and cough. "You don't, uh, you can call me 'Hopper' I guess?"

Steve, confused beyond measure, mumbles another slurred 'yessir' before waking up to a mouthful of hairspray. Or rather, hairsprayed curls.

He figures he must have blacked out again at some point but he can't remember and he has bigger things to worry about so he attempts to fool his mind into thinking he doesn't really care about gaps in his mental timeline.

He coughs and Dustin jumps up before grinning in excitement. "I knew my magic touch could wake you up!"

Steve smiles as best as he can, thanking whatever lucky stars - or government mistakes - had brought Dustin into his life and ruffles the younger boy's hair, knowing it'll annoy him. "Thanks, Dusty."

"Steve?" He hears someone ask and turns to see Hopper at the door.

He's only just opened his mouth to... to try and say something, anything... when Hopper shakes his head. "Why did you go barefoot?"

Steve baulks at the question, having expected many things, this not being one of them. Thankfully, he's saved from answering when Dustin stands in front of him with his hands on his hips. "Can we get him some water first?"

An entire glass of water that may as well have been a vase because it takes him half an eternity to drink under the intense gaze of a worried Dustin later, he's 'allowed' to answer questions.

"I didn't have shoes," Steve mumbles.

"I know what barefoot means, kid." Hopper sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. "But why didn't you take any shoes?"

"I..." Steve shrugs, fighting away the image of his discarded shoe lying in a puddle because the last thing he wants to do is worry the Dustin who's staring at him with wide eyes. "I didn't want to go with only one shoe, that'd be stupid."

Just like he'd thought, Dustin laughs. He immediately coughs to try and hide it but the amusement is there nonetheless.

"Dustin, come on, everyone is looking for you, there's some creature with three heads attacking your team," Jonathan tells the younger of the 'hair brothers', hoping that's enough to convince him.

"See you, Steve-o!" Dustin smiles and wraps the teen in a quick embrace before darting off to save his team from a plastic monster.

"Steve?" Hopper asks, and his question is a given, considering Steve's newly bandaged feet.

"I had to get back."

Jonathan and Hopper both notice how he pointedly avoids meeting their gazes so Jonathan perches on the couch beside him and Hopper kneels in front of them with a smile.

"What was the rush? The meeting?"

Steve nods, swallowing. "Father... H- he said to always... Said to always be back before the str-streetlights turn o- off."

He doesn't notice his shivering until Jonathan wraps a blanket around his shaking shoulders.

Hopper shuts his eyes for a moment. "Why wasn't your d- father with you?"

But Steve is too far deep in his memories of racing with streetlights and climbing through windows to pay any attention. As usual, his subconscious is a mess and he finds himself seeing the man's casual expression through the window of his father's car once again, the ring glinting in his eyes and the smell of metal and blood and petrichor swirling like ghosts in his brain.

"Breathe Steve, breathe!" he hears someone yell as if through layers of oil and he shakes his head because that's so stupid, why wouldn't he be breathing and what kind of idiot forgets to breathe when everyone does it every day?

And then someone is pushing his head forwards and he opens his mouths and figures that he might, in fact, be the one who forgotten to breathe. He gasps, taking in as much air as possible and slamming his eyes shut as he exhales, trying to expel the tension in his muscles and the panic in his head.

But he can't dismiss the thought that he must be so weak, so awfully weak, to have fallen prey to such a petty detail - a ring - and missed a potentially life-changing meeting, not to mention he can't stop wondering why he'd forgotten to breathe because it's not like someone had taken away his ability to think but, really, it is a bit like that.

So it dawns on him with a jolt that he hasn't been thinking - not really - because he has but he's been thinking all the wrong things and not thinking about everything that requires his attention and that's not too different from not thinking at all. He groans, letting his head fall into his hands and screwing his eyes so hard he can see patterns that don't exist outside but he can't avoid the crushing realisation that he doesn't have control of his thoughts anymore, that he's grappling to be in charge of something much bigger than he can handle, that, no matter what he does, he simply isn't strong enough to overcome the relentless replays of the alleyway.

"You're going to get better."

Even with the accusatory voice in his head telling him he may as well give up, Steve can find a small solace in those softly whispered five words.

"Promise?" he can't help the quiet question escaping his lips and he half expects a scornful laugh or silence.

"I swear by everything I love," Jonathan promises and Steve smiles because he can now identify who's talking, which means he's more alert than before and that means progress of some sort.

"I promise you, kid, we're not letting you go through this alone."

This time, it's Hopper. He doesn't add a conditional and he doesn't make it seem like a chore and Steve's heart smiles at the thought of someone caring so much about him.

"Tha..." his throat betrays him by being too dry, too choked, too tight to let him answer properly.

Neither Jonathan nor Hopper care.

"I think you need some fresh clothes," Jonathan tells him, "and I have some stuff that's too big for me so it'll probably fit you."

Steve nods with a small smile on his face and tries to stand, his left ankle immediately screaming at him and sending pulses of pain up his entire leg.

He gasps and has to force himself not to panic as Hopper and Jonathan surge forwards to catch him, stopping him from getting far too intimate with the floor once again.

"It's okay, we've got you," Jonathan assures him kindly.

And he's not lying.

Jonathan is no more than a metre away at any given time for the next however long it takes Steve to shower and change clothes - he might not be panicking anymore but he still can't focus enough to catalogue the passing of time.

Steve would love to say he can remember Jonathan being there with him but he can't, he just knows the other boy was there. He doesn't even remember what the soap looked like or what colour the towel was because it's like he's peering through a foggy glass into his own life and he can't make anything out even though he's doing it all and he's never been so alienated from his own self.

"What do you want to eat?" Jonathan asks eventually.

Steve frowns. "I'm not..."

"Steve, you haven't eaten for more than twenty four hours." Jonathan interrupts. "Eating something isn't really an option."

He can't decide between smiling at the thought of Jonathan paying enough attention to care and scowling at the thought of having to actually try and eat something because that just seems impossible.

"I have an idea."

"First time for everything," Steve mutters without thinking, immediately blinking in shock and turning to the other brunet with an apologetic look only to find Jonathan grinning widely, almost proudly.

"You any good at baking?"

"Who?"

"Didn't take you for a cannibal, Harrington." Jonathan winks.

Steve gapes; he's never seen Jonathan wink before.

"Too far?" Jonathan asks sheepishly, rubbing his neck, and Steve is shaking his head before he can second guess himself because, unless he's majorly wrong, Jonathan had just done something totally out of the norm just to make him feel a little better and that's something he appreciates more than he can articulate.

"N- No..." Steve manages after a miniature eternity.

Jonathan smiles. "I think we have some baking ingredients left over from Will's school project."

"Okay?"

Jonathan raises an eyebrow. "Catch up, airhead." he gently nudges Steve's arm, clarifying: "We're going to try our hands at baking."

"Why?" the one word is all Steve can get out, too confused to even worry. Which, when he thinks about it a second later, was probably Jonathan's aim, or, at least, something similar to his aim.

The eldest Byers brother smiles softly, sadly, slowly. "Mom says it's a good way to take your mind off things."

Steve clenches his fists. "Don't you... Don't you have study- uh, isn't there a test?"

"You're crazy if you think I care more about grades than I care about you."

Nothing, not even the wholly uncharacteristic winking, could have prepared him for something as genuine as that answer.

The other teenager seems to figure out his muddled thoughts before Steve himself can because Jonathan says, "And, no, I haven't told anyone."

Nodding, Steve tries to understand what motives Jonathan could possibly have for helping him to such an extent but he comes up blank, blank other than the conclusion that he does in fact also care for the other boy in one way or another. Said care is probably the main reason why he agrees to be all but pulled back down the stairs and through the house, towards the kitchen.

By the time they've made it to the kitchen, Steve's decided he's clearly not dreaming but he might as well be since this whole thing seems surreal and much better than the nightmare of his thoughts.

- **END** -

 _Et voila. Maybe leave a review? Let me know of any mistakes! Have a tubular time..._


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